Intolerant
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: He had a very good reason for despising milk.


**A/N:**This is set before Hohenheim leaves Trisha and his sons. Cute little four year old Ed and baby Al.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Intolerant**

He had a very good reason for despising milk.

Edward E & Hohenheim

Genre/s: Humour/Family

Rating: K+

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The four year old grimaced and turned away from sight of the milk his father held as the older man futilely attempted to feed his son.

'It's just milk,' Hohenheim wheedled, pushing the plastic cup closer, but the other blonde stubbornly refused, eliciting a groan. 'How does Trisha do it?'

The brunette woman had left earlier that day with their younger son, Alphonse, for a doctor's appointment to check up on a possible ear infection, leaving the dirty blonde to look after the elder son. Unfortunately, that also provided the chore of getting him to eat his rather late breakfast, or more specifically, the milk aspect of it.

Edward had never liked milk, ever since he had stopped being breastfed by his mother and moved on to the powdered equivalent. He became extremely difficult, only managing half a cup on a good day, and then normally from his mother's gentle hands or more rarely from his father's strict ones who consequently was never around to witness the aftermath, before Trisha somehow or other managed to convince the child to drink a substitute, however the said substitute had run out, so he was left with only a single alternative...which Edward was stubbornly refusing.

As it was, Hohenheim was just as stubborn as the Elric child, and there was times when stubbornness pitted against itself, and one would push until the other yielded.

'Come on.'

Edward looked up at him, then at the glass before shaking his head. 'Don't want,' he muttered. 'Yucky.'

'It is not yucky,' the other lectured. 'How else will you grow big and strong?'

Back and forth father and son went, before Hohenheim gave up, exasperated, and tipped the contents of the cup down the other's throat while he opened his mouth for retaliation.

Edward's initial response was to splutter and attempt to spit the liquid out, but his father had blocked that option by closing his palm over the other's mouth, blocking the passageway and leaving the only option to swallow.

And eventually he did, though he made a disgusted face soon after.

Relieved, Hohenheim removed the plate and cup and set about cleaning up.

* * *

It took a few hours for the symptoms to show, and for the first time in nearly four years, Hohenheim was there to witness them. The first sign was grimace that danced upon his son's face as he read to the lad from one of his favourite books, accompanied by a slight groan and the small hand rubbing his stomach.

'Does your stomach hurt?' he asked, putting the book away.

Edward shook his head, then seemed to reconsider and nodded soon after. However, despite the other's expectations, he remained seated.

'Do you want to go to the bathroom?' his father tried.

Edward nodded and stood, wandering over to the said room and almost stumbling on the carpet along the way.

Hohenheim watched him go, before setting his son's book aside and picking up one of his own to pass the time with. After all, a few minutes idly lost was a few minutes wasted.

Until his attention was drawn away from the complex algorithms and to the noises coming from the bathroom, sounding much like someone throwing up.

He abandoned the book and crossed the room and adjacent hallway in long strides, pounding on the door beyond.

'Ed, open up,' he ordered.

More retching sounds followed, before the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the door opened to reveal Edward's sweating face, vomit trailing down his red shirt and hovering at the edge of his lips.

'What happened?' he asked, while entering the small room and filling the bath tub with warm water.

'Threw up,' the kid grumbled.

'I can see that.' Hohenheim sighed, unused to being the one to care for a sick child. That was Trisha's forte; he was the provider, the disciplinarian and at times, the teacher. 'But why?'

'Milk,' his son stated in a matter-of-fact tone, sounding sure of his answer.

The other frowned. 'This isn't an excuse to get you out of it next time, is it?'

Edward shook his head.

'Does this happen often?'

He nodded, then shook his head. 'Not when Mum gives me the other one.'

Hohenheim ran his fingers threw his hair. Was it possible that his son had some sort of allergy to normal milk? He would have to ask Trisha about that substitute, but before that...

He turned off the taps. 'Clothes off and in the tub.'

* * *

'What happened?' was Trisha's immediate question upon entering the house with a sleeping Alphonse in her arms.

'Ed threw up,' Hohenheim replied tiredly after the difficulties of getting the queasy stomach to sleep. 'He said it was because of the milk.'

She gave him an odd look, followed by a hardening glare worthy of demonstrating a mother's wrath. 'You didn't force feed him the normal one, did you?'

Her husband flinched at the glare, but nodded, causing the woman to face-palm her forehead with her free hand. 'He's lactose intolerant,' she grounded out. 'I normally give him the equivalent without lactose, and you very well know that.'

He did? Why didn't he remember then..?

Perhaps it was a side-effect from transiting his soul too many times to count. After all, nothing could be gained without prices paid.

Although alchemy's all-founding laws failed to explain certain allergies.


End file.
